


teach me to be more adaptive

by theomegapoint



Series: Kinktober 2018 [26]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: ("soft epilogue" is just code for porn i guess), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kinktober 2018, Lactation Kink, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, hashtag we deserve a soft epilogue basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-09-29 07:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17199461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theomegapoint/pseuds/theomegapoint
Summary: “Oh, sweetheart.” Percival beckons for Credence, who hesitates a moment more before coming forward to settle in Percival's lap. “I've told you before, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”





	teach me to be more adaptive

“Percival.”

The word is quiet and soft in a way that Percival has come to associate with Credence, but there's an urgency under them that Credence rarely lets bleed through. Credence is hovering in the doorway, and Percival is about to tell him that he doesn't have to hesitate when the door is open when he catches a whiff of something sweet and his head jerks up to look at Credence. He's wearing one of the things Queenie helped him choose, soft and sheer, which means that Percival can see the way that his chest is damp and wanting.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Percival beckons for Credence, who hesitates a moment more before coming forward to settle in Percival's lap. “I've told you before, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You're working,” Credence says quietly.

“Nonsense.” Percival waves a hand, sending the papers he was working on back into a folder and then off his desk entirely. “You know you're welcome to bother me whenever it's important. What's the matter, sweetheart?”

His face buried in the curve of Percival's neck, Credence mumbles something unintelligible. He smells sweet, but Percival can taste an underlying acrid burn to it. When he's upset, Credence tastes like the burnt caramel of a crème brûlée and Percival rubs a hand along his back, trying to soothe the upset away. He doesn't mention how he can feel the wetness of Credence's chest seeping through his waistcoat. It'll just upset Credence more, and it's really nothing a simple cleaning spell can't handle.

“I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that,” Percival says gently. 

He's learned how to phrase things in the way where it implies it's not Credence's fault something wasn't understood and sure enough Credence shifts to whisper into Percival's ear.

“My chest,” Credence murmurs. It's barely more intelligible than the previous time, but it sounds more like actual words. “I don't know how to make it stop.”

“Do you trust me, sweetheart?”

There's an quiet noise of assent, and Percival gently shifts Credence around so he's seated on the edge of the desk. There's the underlying scent of molasses and butterscotch to the way Credence sits, which is the taste of uncertainty and nervousness. It's not burnt, though, so Percival takes it as a good sign. For a while, Percival assumed that Credence always smelled like burned sugar but he's discovered that there's a range to the sweetness Credence is infused with. It's different from the soft, flowery scents that Queenie and other omegas tend to give off, and Percival has never been much for sweets until meeting Credence. He's grown used to it, though. If you asked him, he might say that he even enjoys it.

“Relax,” Percival says, hands running along Credence's sides. “I need to undress you. Is that all right?”

There's a deep layer of butterscotch to Credence's scent, and Percival waits until it evens out and fades into a background note. Credence nods, small and sharp, and Percival smiles before leaning forward to kiss Credence while he vanishes the nightgown off Credence. His hands creep upward, and when his fingers brush over the swell of Credence's chest, Credence shudders under the touch.

“Percival,” he says, and his surprise tastes like cotton candy. “I—”

“Hush,” Percival says. He presses a kiss to the corner of Credence's mouth before kissing his way down Credence's body. “I'll take take care of you.”

Credence's shoulders are still tense, his posture rigid and perfect, but it quickly dissipates once Percival manages to put his mouth on one of Credence's nipples. He suckles gently, reveling in the quiet gasps Credence makes, and is rewarded with the sweet taste of milk across his tongue. It's a quirk of biology that omegas have, Percival knows, that some of them produce milk as a sign their heat is drawing near. It's meant to show that they're viable, healthy, and ready to be bred by an alpha.

Percival never pushes Credence to tell him about the past, about the things that have happened that lead them here, but he suspects this one might have taken them both by surprise. Heats don't happen when a body is under too much stress, when something in the environment tells an omega that it's not safe to have a child, so this may well be the first time this has happened. He'll have to firecall Queenie later, tell her that Credence needs to hear from another omega what a heat is and what will happen during it. He's not equipped to explain, as an alpha, and if he asks Newt to do it Credence will come out the other end vaguely overwhelmed and still none the wiser about what a heat actually is.

This, though, he can do. He can suckle at Credence's chest, part his legs and dip into the center of him to hear the slightest hitch in Credence's breathing. One day, Percival hopes that Credence will learn to be loud. To be free and effusive with his reactions to anything. As it is, Credence's hand find its way to the back of Percival's neck, fingers trembling and uncertain as they press Percival closer. He obliges, never one to deny Credence anything, and moans around where he's been suckling. He'd rewarded with a firmer press against the back of his neck and a quiet swallow.

“An alpha is not made to serve,” Credence says quietly. He says things like that sometimes, and Percival has learned not to correct him the way he wants to. “You do it well.”

“I take care of what's mine,” Percival replies. It's true, and it's an answer he knows Credence will accept. “You're mine, aren't you?”

“Yes,” Credence whispers. “I'm yours.”

Percival kisses him and it tastes like milk and honey. Honey is a new one, a scent and taste that Percival hasn't yet cataloged, but he doesn't think it's bad. New is usually positive with Credence, whose experience in the world has been largely negative, and this seems no different. He presses another finger into Credence, whose fingers tighten around the back of Percival's neck as his mouth falls open.

“Is this okay?” It's nothing they haven't done before, but Percival's been lectured into taking nothing for granted in the case of Credence. “Do you want this?”

“Please,” Credence says. It's reverent, awed. “ _Please_.”

Pressing a kiss to Credence's cheek, Percival works towards taking Credence apart. The smell of honey wraps around them, until Percival can taste nothing else, and he realizes what it is: it's _wanting_ , pure and primal, and that makes Percival pull Credence closer, makes him bend down to capture Credence's mouth as he falls apart.

**Author's Note:**

> [jazz hands] bet you thought i'd died but surprise bitch i'm not dead


End file.
